


Numerology

by LooNEY_DAC



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Behold My Insanity, Gen, Here Be Weirdness, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-02-13 08:30:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12980148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooNEY_DAC/pseuds/LooNEY_DAC





	1. 01001101

The half-completed logic problem stared mockingly back at Emil Västerström from where he’d thrown the magazine in disgusted frustration when he’d run out of time to solve it at breakfast. It was the first thing to catch his eye when he got back from work, and ever since then, and no matter how he tried to ignore it, Emil found himself glaring at the crinkled sheet of paper with its little chart and list of clues.

From the very first line, the logic problem had rattled Emil, though he wasn’t quite sure why. “Tuuri wanted to see trolls, but she wasn’t immune. Imagine her shock when she saw five different types of troll (one was a vätte) in five separate places doing five different things at five different times of day! Tuuri made it out OK, but her debriefing went a little wrong. Can you figure out what kind of troll she saw where at which time of day and doing what from her statements?”

The background scenario was a bit weird, but otherwise it was a perfectly normal logic problem; every other problem in the book followed the same format, though some were about horse races, or florists, or foreign postcards, or whatever. Still, there was something about that particular scenario that tugged at Emil’s mind, and something about the name “Tuuri” that tugged even harder. This tugging made it impossible for Emil to concentrate on the problem itself, but impossible to think about anything else.

Maybe, Emil thought, maybe starting another problem would clear his mind enough to get this one done. He flipped a few pages ahead.

“Onni is a big scaredy-cat. He got scared by five different things (one was a rat-beast) in five different places on five different errands he was doing on five different days this week. Can you figure out what scared him at each different place, which errand he was running, and on which day of the week it happened from the clues provided?”

Rat-beast? Why on earth was that so familiar, too? Emil flipped another few pages ahead, figuring that the third time would be the charm.

“Lalli is the most best night scout. Last night, he found five different hazards (one was a sjødraug) in five different parts of his route and told five different unit commanders (one was Sigrun) of five different unit types (one was a Cleanser outfit) to take care of them. Can you figure out which commander Lalli told to take care of which hazard, what type of unit they led and where each hazard was from the clues provided?”

Emil’s cousins came running at the unearthly scream, followed swiftly by their parents.

*

The house was just like any of a thousand like it in the city; only the number beside the door told Emil that here was his destination, so here was where he knocked.

It had taken quite some time and efforts on both Emil’s part and that of his Uncle Torbjörn to track down the author of the oh-so-disturbing logic problems, but now, Emil was ready to beard the author in his den, if he ever opened his door. Emil knocked again, more insistently this time, and was rewarded with a hint of motion behind the curtains that protected the author’s privacy.

Emil started knocking again, determined not to stop until the door opened, so he was caught off guard when it did open.

The man filling the doorway almost literally filled the doorway. He was almost as blond as Emil, sporting massive mutton-chop-style sideburns as though he were a ‘70’s throwback. His eyes were barely open, and he didn’t speak, giving Emil the impression that here was some gargantuan forest creature he had woken from its hibernation. Still, Emil managed to ask, though in a far weaker voice than he’d intended, “Are you Mikkel Madsen?”

The eyes finally opened at the sound of Emil’s voice, the heavy lids flinging wide with a fleeting burst of some emotion too swiftly brought under control for Emil to identify it before drooping back to what seemed to be their habitual position at half-mast. He still didn’t say anything.

Eventually, Emil repeated the question, adding, “I’m Emil Västerström.”

Finally, the huge man spoke. “Yes, I know who you are.” After a moment for Emil to get over his astonishment, the massive Mr Madsen continued, “You’d better join the others.”

As he spoke, he stepped back, indicating the way with a jerk of his head. Emil was through the doorway and halfway down the hall before he thought to consider what he was doing. Now that he was this far in, though, the only thing to do was go all the way and hope he hadn’t made a fatal mistake.

The first thing Emil saw when he entered the room was a shock of red hair above a pair of violet eyes that he knew, though he’d never seen them before. “Sigrun,” Emil breathed, and then he saw the others. “Tuuri… LALLI!” And, of course, Reynir was there as well, though his braid wasn’t.

Emil knew that Reynir ought to have a long, thick braid of red hair. Emil knew them all… but how?

“Are you certain that you don’t know already?”

Emil turned to face Mikkel, but when he focused on the older man, his sight suddenly pixellated, as though…

“Yes, Emil. This world is one of Virtual Reality, constructed for our minds to play within it. We were caught, out there in the Silent World, and killed, but our brains were saved and hooked into a giant machine that once enabled a group of other brains to live on after their bodies had died.”

*

Emil Västerström awoke, screaming, as he always did.

The light in his bedroom came on, and Emil saw that there was something lying crumpled on the carpet by his bedroom door. It was a magazine of logic problems…


	2. 1001 Danish Nights

The captain lounged nonchalantly on her sumptuous divan, ostensibly indifferent to the rolling of the ship around her and only occasionally glancing up from her knitting to the massive but securely bound form forced into a supine pose before her. She very much enjoyed the arrogant Dane’s discomfiture, which was increased by the sword lying lightly on his neck, but she did not enjoy it enough to forgo his execution if he failed to deliver the night’s tale.

Eventually, the time came for the captain to break the silence. “So, Madsen,” she almost purred, “what sort of tale do you have for me this evening?”

Mikkel Madsen was not a man who was easily discomfited, and even less likely to show any discomfiture that he felt, so his voice was only slightly roughened when he responded…

*

Reynir ibn Arni ibn Ragnar ibn Arni ibn Reynir had roamed a good portion of the world with his caravans, but now, he was beginning to feel the urge to settle down and perhaps take a wife and start a family. It was in this frame of mind that he met Tuuri in the Golden City of Copenhagen, Queen of the Sea.

Tuuri was everything Reynir wanted in a wife: short, plump, cuddly, bursting with energy and up for any adventure—even the adventure of settling in the barren wastes of Jutland. Tuuri, for her part, let it be known that a young, tall, redheaded master of caravans might have a chance at her hand, if he tried for it.

So they were wed, and they prospered, even though neither was immune. One part of their continued safety and prosperity was that they were great friends with the local garrison, which was led by the illustrious Captain Sigrun and her right-hand viking, Emil the Cleanser. Another part was that they brought out two of Tuuri’s relations to help: her rather cowardly brother Onni and her brave cousin Lalli.

Lalli could afford to be brave, for he was immune, and a cunning scout besides; he helped out the local garrison quite a bit in his spare time. Onni was a coward to the bone, though he was a powerful mage; and rightly so, for he, like Tuuri and Reynir, was not immune.

In those days, a terrible band of cutthroats terrorized the lands all around the area Captain Sigrun held responsibility over; she claimed they never raided her area because they were more afraid of her doughty warriors than any others, which might have been the case. Nevertheless, the feared General Trond and Admiral Olsen came to her garrison to ensure that her warriors weren’t re-enacting the raiding ways their ancestors had lived by.

It was around this time that Reynir took one of his flocks out to a safe pasture—and was nearly caught by the cutthroats. He had barely enough time to hide among the sheep when they seemed to pop out of the very ground itself.

“Shut Trillebør!” Reynir heard a horrid voice snap, but a moment later, a murmur of discontent arose, and the same voice barked out, “Open Trillebør!”

The flat ground rose up into a hill with a cave open on one side like a giant maw. After a few moments of the cutthroats moving in and out, the voice finally rose again to command, “Shut Trillebør!” And the ground was flat again.

Reynir waited among the sheep for a good long time before he rose and went over to where the hill had sprung from the ground. Hesitantly, he called out, “Open Trillebør!”

The hill appeared, and Reynir went into the cave, which held all the loot from the robberies and more, so Reynir knew that he should let the local garrison know about it; but first he told Onni, who saw an opportunity to enrich himself with little risk. Onni ventured forth to the place Reynir had told him the cave would appear, and went inside, but he lingered too long.

The horrible head of the forty-strong band of cutthroats who called themselves the Ghost Thieves, a fiend known only as “Sleipnope”, boldly approached the patch where the cave would appear. “Open Trillebør!”

Onni was horrified to see the cave open without another word from him, and further horrified to see the Ghost Thieves all ready for battle. Before he could get off so much as a single spell, Sleipnope had struck Onni’s head from his shoulders.

“Men!” Sleipnope addressed his band. “We are discovered by these locals! We must disguise ourselves, gain access to their compound, and slaughter them all in the night!”

The cutthroats each climbed into an oil jar, and Sleipnope, now in merchant garb, loaded them into a huge flatbed with a few full oil jars; so it was that they went to the home of Reynir and Tuuri. All might have gone as they desired if only Tuuri hadn’t needed some oil.

Tuuri came to the first oil jar and thrust the ladle into it. “No need for rough stuff, Captain,” the cutthroat within murmured.

Tuuri kept her cool, whispering, “Not yet, but be ready.” She tested every jar thus, before going to get a surprise for them.

So all the ghost thieves were drowned one by one in boiling oil, save for their leader, who was taken by a vengeful Lalli and brought before Captain Sigrun, General Trond, and Admiral Olsen. All the loot was returned to its rightful owners, except a few pieces whose owners could not be found, which were awarded to Reynir and Tuuri.

*

The captain was silent for a long time after Mikkel had finished speaking; but before her hench-beast bearing the sword had quite decided that his mistress willed Mikkel’s death at long last, she finally spoke. “Well done, Madsen. You have earned another night’s reprieve; be sure that tomorrow night’s tale is as good, or face the consequences.” She picked her knitting back up. “Away with him.”

Mikkel’s bound form was lifted in strong arms and carried back to his cell…


	3. 24 Terrible Hours

Y3, Month 1, Day 5  
0900

It was raining again, and cold. Not freezing, but worse: just barely above freezing, so that the still-liquid rain got through every unprotected seam and leached all your heat away before you knew it. Snow and sleet were colder but easier to keep out; as far as Aksel Eide was concerned, that made them less dangerous by far. Sigrun would disagree, but Sigrun liked disagreeing with Aksel, even on things where they agreed, just to wind him up.

Now, normally, the Rash-begotten things would all be hiding away in a rain like this, but there seemed to be something that kept this pack of used-to-be wolves Aksel and his group were battling up and all too active. Maybe it was that the battle had started before the rain; maybe it was the remnants of the fur keeping the wolf-beasts warmer and drier than the humans battling them; maybe it was just Aksel’s bad luck, like the urge he’d had to bring Berit along today that had wound up with her breaking a leg out here right before the wolf-beasts had jumped them.

Of course, Berit hadn’t let any little broken leg keep her out of the fight. Even hampered as she was, she still had the highest kill count of the five of them, if only because she had the only gun among them; the others were making do with knives, hammers and spears, which generally only allowed them to hold one of their foes in place for Berit to get a kill shot in.

The battle was going rather well until the barn blew up. The grosslings were less startled than their human foes at the chunks of fiery debris raining down among them, but Berit’s bullets still finished them off as efficiently as ever.

The real problem, though, was that the explosion would draw every last grossling for miles around to come see what the fuss was about, which meant the humans needed to hide, since Berit wouldn’t have been able to travel fast enough for them to escape even without her broken leg.

1200

They’d found a tumble-down old farmhouse that looked like it hadn’t been used since Quisling was Prime Minister but still had four walls and a roof, all quite threadbare (to be generous).

The roof, such as it was, had started leaking not long after the five of them had piled into the place, demonstrating why it wasn’t a nest for some industrious troll. On the other hand, the fireplace still worked, and they’d been able to set up various bits and pieces to keep both the wind and the grosslings out.

1500

Ingrid was sobbing uncontrollably; she was only expressing what the others felt but couldn’t let themselves express, lest they collapse as well, so they let her cry on.

The troll must have barely been an infant; there was hardly any weight to its corpse when Aksel flung it from their hiding place.

1800

Sigrun was down for the count, leaving Aksel as the only one of them able to fight the monsters off. Ingrid had sobbed herself unconscious, while Goran and Berit had passed out from the pain of their wounds.

Aksel finished off the troll that had smashed Sigrun against the wall, which was the last of this batch of grosslings. And yet, there were many, many hours to go before dawn.

2100

Goran was awake enough to try to keep Aksel up, but Sigrun was still out cold. They had all moved almost dangerously close to the fire, as the cold had closed in on them more stealthily than any grossling could. Aksel imagined he could see frost forming on the dancing flames.

2400

Aksel jerked awake but didn’t cry out. Ingrid looked back at him solemnly. Neither of them spoke.

The fire was getting low; while Ingrid had obviously put more fuel on it, there was none left within their little shelter, so Aksel would have to get some more, as Ingrid was totally unwilling to leave the others.

Aksel managed to force himself into motion; Sigrun, lying nearby, protested in her sleep, which slightly relieved Aksel’s nagging worries over her condition.

0300

There was nothing left in the farmhouse with which they could feed the fire, unless they started pulling the walls down; they might have tried, but for the fact that it was still raining hard enough to ensure that anything outside would be too damp to burn. Aksel wondered how long they had until morning.

0600

All of them were barely holding back screams of agony from the cold; while Aksel was happy that they weren’t in the numb, sleepy, just-about-to-die stage of hypothermia, he could have done without the pain on top of everything else.

The only good thing about the cold was that any monster that was out and about now would be suffering from it as much as or more than the five humans in here were.

0900

They were going to die from the cold unless something drastic was done, so Aksel did it, though he was almost out of strength.

The rescue party rushed towards the massive column of smoke in their pre-Rash minivan, hoping against hope that they were in time. An old farmhouse was ablaze before them, lighting up the countryside.

The rescuers were relieved to find that they had made it in time, but only because the five they were rescuing were tough enough to last the 24 terrible hours it had taken to find them…


	4. 3.1415926535…

The chalk scraped across the black slate board with a noise that, while Emil barely heard it, made Lalli wince and bolt upright. This was one of the favorite tricks that the math teacher who was stuck running detention today liked to pull, and Emil hated him for it: the man certainly knew the effect that his scrawling figures on the board always had on Lalli, deliberately inducing it in this long, drawn-out way to ensure that the recalcitrant student actually kept at his studies rather than spending the detention period sleeping, which was why he had detention in the first place.

Students were to use the detention period either to do their homework or, if they had already finished it, to complete whatever extra problems the supervising teacher (“AKA warden,” Emil thought to himself) decided to set them; these were usually though not always drawn from the “warden’s” home subject, and so mathematics and science teacher Mikkel Madsen was writing out a problem for his two detainees to solve.

This time, instead of a carefully worded exercise in logic or algebra, a familiar series of figures took shape on the board, making Emil groan. He hated Geometry. Lalli wasn’t fond of it either, though not for the same reason as Emil. While Emil had a hard time wrapping his mind around the concepts of conic sections and their various dynamics, Lalli simply had a hard time getting the various forms and figures down on paper correctly, his drawings always tending to be too angular and lacking in the smooth curves the teacher desired from them.

Emil groaned again. This was all so useless! Emil’s skills were in language arts, as opposed to math: he’d far rather be working on parables than parabolas, or hyperbole rather than hyperbolas; but here he was, stuck. Emil glanced over at Lalli, wondering what was going through the other boy’s mind. Lalli’s face was an almost impenetrably bland mask so much of the time that most people thought that it was all there was to him; while even Emil found it frustratingly difficult to get behind, every so often the mask just seemed to vanish for a split second and Emil knew exactly what was going through Lalli’s mind in rather shocking detail.

“Mister Västerström.” Mikkel’s blunt tones penetrated Emil’s abstraction. “While Mister Hotakainen is working on the problems on the board, I would like to have a word with you.”

Of course he did, and Emil was quite well aware of why: Mikkel knew Emil had earned detention for this week, but not why, and was dying to find out. Emil would have to be careful, as Mikkel had an almost uncanny way of getting kids to spill secrets they had determined to carry to their graves.

“So, do you want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Emil kept quiet. Mikkel couldn’t use force to get Emil to rat, or even the threat of extending the detention: he had to get it out of Emil through trickery.

“I can see that I’ll have to have Sigrun talk to you; perhaps you’ll tell her what you won’t tell me.”

Oh, brother. Emil rolled his eyes while Mikkel’s back was turned. Not this again.

When Mikkel turned back to face Emil, the red-headed, violet-eyed ventriloquist’s dummy known as “Sigrun” was firmly in place on Mikkel’s left arm.

“So,” Mikkel said through the dummy with his execrable ventriloquism, “what’s up, Little Viking? Mikkel here tells me that you’ve been having some problems.”

Whether Mikkel was channeling a separate personality into the dummy or whether he was simply a far better actor than he was a ventriloquist was a matter of much debate among the students, along with a dozen more theories on just what “Sigrun” really was. Certainly “Sigrun” said and did things that Mikkel never could have, nor would have if he could have. It was all very confusing.

Emil stifled a sigh of the ages, hoping Mikkel would give this preposterous charade up soon…


	5. 4 to 1 on the Favorite

_Östersund, Y20_

The old man was smiling, which Fredrik took as a Very Bad Sign. The old man was known for how enthusiastic he was at backing the biggest losers any time he placed a bet. Fredrik frowned down at the little slip of paper covered with the old man’s spidery scrawl. The bet looked sound enough, so what did the old man “know” that Fredrik didn’t?

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Most of the bookies wouldn’t take bets from the old man, so Fredrik had become his go-between; even so, some of the guys had started to look at Fredrik askance when he went to place the old man’s bets. The fact that Fredrik often placed a bet or two of his own opposing the old man’s bets had them even more suspicious.

The old man patted Fredrik’s arm in a rather condescending manner. “Just go place the bet, Sonny.” The old man always called Fredrik “Sonny”; Fredrik supposed the old man couldn’t remember his name, but the old man never called anyone else by that particular name, so Fredrik also supposed it might be counted as a compliment.

Mia—gentle, gracious Mia—stepped in then. “He will, Grandpa; he’s just being responsible.” She turned to Fredrik and murmured, “Don’t worry; he can afford to lose what he’s bet.” Which he will, her eyes added.

Fredrik gave a slight nod to acknowledge her unspoken addendum, saying aloud only, “Very well, sir; I’ll place the bet for you at the first opportunity.”

Mia gifted Fredrik with one of her blinding smiles as he walked off.

*  
 _Östersund, Y25_

Fredrik fussed over every conceivable aspect of his dress and appearance—and a few inconceivable ones, or so his amused sister informed him. Fredrik knew he was being as foolish as a teenager in the throes of his first crush, but he couldn’t help himself. Everything had to be just right for Mia.

Mia arrived just after Fredrik’s sister left. Her first question after the maid removed her wrap relieved a few of Fredrik’s anxieties. “What’s that wonderful smell?”

Fredrik crossed his fingers behind his back for luck as he replied, hoping hard that the rest of the evening would go as well as he’d planned.

*  
 _Östersund, Y30_

The old man was smiling as he left the room with the others, which Fredrik took as a Very Bad Sign. What did the old man know that Fredrik didn’t?

Fredrik turned to Mia, who was looking at him with a kind of nervous expectancy that told him that she knew as well as the others did why he was here. “Mia…” He had to clear his throat before continuing, “…I know I’m not Love’s Young Dream, but…”

“Oh, who says you’re not?” Mia interrupted, throwing herself at him. She would have fallen on the hard wooden floor if Fredrik hadn’t caught her in his arms, and might have hurt herself, so he was really acting out of chivalry.

There was very little said for the next few minutes, but eventually Fredrik asked, and Mia accepted.

“HA!” The old man burst out from behind the door. “I knew I could count on you, Sonny!” As the others all crowded back in, the old man chortled, “I got those fools down at the bar to give me 4 to 1 odds on you! Think of it—4 to 1 on the favorite!”


	6. 55°40’34”N 12°34’06”E

Year 0, Day 22

It is in the nature of Mankind to desire to build something that will outlive its creator, whether it be a dynasty, a nation-state, a monument, or a clock.

The Clockmaker had been making other, lesser clocks for over twenty years when the Rash came. He’d always had the idea of a clock that would run forever in the back of his mind, but such a vanity project must always come second to the day-to-day needs of life.

When he first saw the Rash defacing his neck, he knew that the hour for his final, greatest clock had struck; he only hoped he could complete his work before the last chime tolled.

He was trying to get this clock to power itself from the Earth’s motion, which no one had yet succeeded at, though he had other plans for backup power sources. In any case, the clock would need to be utterly self-sustaining through however long it would remain, so self-lubricating and self-correcting as well as self-powered. It was a tall order for someone in the prime of body and mind, and the Rash would ensure that he was neither.

On the other hand, success at anything was almost always determined by whether you could out-stubborn the problems you encountered along the way, and for this, he was prepared to out-stubborn anything.

*  
Year 90

Another day, another raid. This time, Sigrun and Emil were headed for yet another mark on their map where Siv had indicated that they might expect to find a small cache of books suitable for retrieving. Hopefully, the location would prove unsuitable for a nest while remaining suitable for the books to have survived the end of the world that had brought them into being, but Emil wasn’t counting on it, even though their hit rate had actually been quite good so far.

From the outside, the place was far too intact for Emil’s liking; he could see that Sigrun agreed without having to ask. Even so, they were here, and giving up without even an attempt was anathema to both of them, so they forced the door and went in.

The interior of the old shop matched the exterior: far too intact not to be a nest. Both Sigrun and Emil expected to be attacked at any minute, even though there were no signs that anything had entered here since the Old Times.

They found a single corpse in what had evidently been a workshop just outside the storefront proper; an entire wall was a solid mass of mechanical clocks of every style and description, thicker even than the show-off wall in the storefront. “Better keep mum about this to Little Fuzzy-Head,” Sigrun murmured to Emil, rather unnecessarily.

Still in awe at the mass of clockwork and carved wood, metal and plastic, Emil only replied, “Yeah.”

*  
Year 0, Day 45

His eyesight was completely gone now; he was working by feel alone, and even that was less and less as his skin surrendered to the encroaching Rash.

Sporadic fever, vomiting and dizzy spells had given way to intense pain and weakness as his body edged ever closer to the inevitable end, but he _would not_ stop until the job was finished. That thought alone kept him working far beyond what any reasonable person would have called the end. Just one more gear in place; then another, and another…

*  
Year 90

_BONG!_

With that first, great chime, the entire wall of clocks seemed to come to life. Every last timepiece arrayed on the cracked plaster began to strike the hour in a dizzying cacophony of clangs, tweets, cuckoos, chimes, and even whistles.

Emil knew now why no grossling dared nest in this place.

“Nice,” Sigrun said once the noise had ended. She had been looking at her chrono, comparing its reading to the vast array of clocks on the wall. “Ninety years without adjustment, and they’re less than a second off true. Now _that’s_ craftsmanship.”

“How do you think they’ve kept running all this time?” Emil wondered.

“Short Stuff could probably tell us, if we were fool enough to tell her about this place,” Sigrun replied, “or maybe Mikkel. Anyway, I’ll leave that to the brains; folks like us just have to accept that things are the way they are, without worrying over the why too much, unless the why involves grosslings.” She hefted a huge stack of loose papers at Emil, who obliged by holding his bag open to receive them. “The way things are here is that this poor guy built a fine grossling repellent machine, which means we can take everything in here that we can carry without worrying about an ambush, and _that’s_ a blessing we won’t likely see again.”

“Too bad,” Emil opined as they set to gathering up more books and papers…


	7. 6-Packed Through the Silence

The entire group said it as one: “You brought _BEER?”_

Of course, they didn’t all say it in the same way; only at the same time. One was confused, another disapproving; but a good half of their group was delighted.

He held up the 6-pack so that they all knew he was telling the truth. “I splurged,” he said, putting it on the table, his face and voice deadpan. This was to be their last night ashore for quite some time, and he was hoping the beer would make at least one of their group more amenable to the long water trip ahead; as the one in question was one of those who had responded with delight, his hope had increased.

The youngest of their group hesitantly picked up one of the cans. “‘Moose Urine Special’. Why is it called that?”

“It’s a joke; I’m not sure where it originated, but it’s a statement about the quality (or lack thereof) in certain extremely cheap beers, which the brewer decided to adopt as self-deprecating humor.”

“Oh.”

Then his sister pushed forward angrily, the reason for her upset preceding the rest of her. “Eino! You know I can’t have alcohol when I’m pregnant!”

“One can won’t kill the kid, especially if you just sip it over the next few days,” Eino said. “Besides, this is probably the last of this we’ll ever taste.”

Aino weighed that for a long time before she said, “Will it go bad if I keep it until after the baby’s on formula?”

Eino frowned. “I’m not sure. Do you have any idea, Saku?”

“I’d have to Google it,” Saku said automatically. Then he frowned.

“Don’t _fuss_ so, Aino,” Tuuli said in her ‘I’m a _happy_ crazy person’ voice. “Let’s just have this one last drink to honor where we were before we start off for where we need to go.” Her smile widened. “Do you remember the last time we had a round of this?”

Despite herself, Aino smiled back. They had been at their favorite pizza place in Mikkeli; this had been before Veeti and nearly before Saku, and all of them had been quite gung-ho about trying this new ‘Moose Urine’ beer. That air of camaraderie and happiness was more or less all Aino could remember about the evening, as the group had obviously decided that this new beer was certainly drinkable enough, whatever the brewers chose to call it.

It had been one of the last times they had gotten together as a family in the actual city; Tuuli and Eino, and eventually Veeti, had started really getting into their survivalist thing, so Kaino, Aino and Saku had placated them by going out into the back end of nowhere every so often, usually using the boat to get there. Fortunately, the back end of nowhere had generators, satellite TV, cell reception, and broadband internet.

All they had now were the generators, and those wouldn’t last forever.

They were going to go out to look for other survivors in the morning; they had been out of contact with the world for almost three weeks now, and the need to know was gnawing at them all—even Eino and Tuuli.

Before they left, though, they would have a hearty drink tonight, to fortify them against what the morning might bring…


	8. 793.8

Being an Icelandic mage in the midst of the godless Swedes was proving harder than he’d thought when he’d been offered the trip—certainly harder than the trip to his jolly fellow believers in Norway, despite their proudly stated ignorance of anything beyond their fjords. His Swede friend had seen what magic could do, but his family remained steadfast in their disbelief; he didn’t quite mind for himself, but the hurt his Swede friend obviously felt at the resulting family strife gnawed at him.

He came back to his friend’s house one evening to find the family all gathered in the living room. His friend was scowling thunderously at a stranger with an implacable mien and an odd sense to her.

The stranger turned to face him, examining him through a pair of spectacles with odd emerald lenses, and something eased in the stranger’s face. “You are an Icelandic mage,” she said in a cool voice, removing the spectacles. “Good. That should settle that.”

His friend half-relaxed as the stranger made to leave, but his friend’s mother very nearly exploded. “Aren’t you even going to test him? What are we paying you for?” His friend turned his scowl on his mother.

The stranger paused. “Madam, I expose the _fraudulent_ claims of those who _pretend_ to work magic; those who actually _are_ mages are of no interest to me. Keep your money.” The stranger said those last words with supreme disdain, which shocked his friend’s mother into silence.

Before the stranger could leave, the mage asked, “Who and what are you?” There was only curiosity in the question.

The stranger turned back to the mage. With a slight bow, the stranger replied, “I am an illusionist, a master of the ancient arts of misdirection and prestidigitation. I have no magic myself, and for the last several years I have turned my skills to exposing those charlatans who claim to be magic without any real power at all. As I said, since you are a true mage, you are outside my purview.”

The mage felt his eyes widen. “Are—are you Mentallo the Magnificent?”

The stranger stopped short. “You’ve heard of me?”

The mage felt himself blush. “I’ve loved reading about illusions and sleight-of-hand since I was a kid, but I’ve never found anyone back home who could perform it—I’m kinda from the back end of nowhere.”

“Yes, and you’ve fooled my son into thinking you’re a mage, but we know better!” his friend’s mother erupted anew, ignoring her son’s silent glare.

“He _is_ a mage,” Mentallo retorted. “Mages of the Icelandic tradition are readily identifiable by their distinctive garb, by their air of abstraction, and by the weird glow they give off when you look at them through these glasses.” She tapped the spectacles hanging from a cord running behind her neck. “I don’t carry them as a fashion statement, you know.”

His friend’s mother looked like she was going to have some kind of infarction. Before she could get out more than a few incoherent sputters, though, the mage decided he needed to act. He grabbed a pad of sticky notes from the coffee table, quickly drew a galdrastafur on the top sheet, pulled it free, and stuck it on his friend’s mother’s forehead.

The effect was immediate and dramatic. His friend’s mother shut her mouth, the rage immediately wiped from her face. She slowly sank back down onto the couch, the alarming color receding from her face and neck as she did.

“…And while anyone can _use_ a rune, only Icelandic mages can _draw_ them, and few can do so with such alacrity,” Mentallo added softly. “Well done.”

His friend finally relaxed completely. “That’s a sedative rune like the one you had to use on me when you were working on my leg, isn’t it?”

“Yep. I’m sorry I jumped in like that, but her look scared me.”

His friend’s father spoke for the first time. “It scared us all; thank you for helping her.”

“You know,” Mentallo said, “if you’re _really_ interested in sleight-of-hand, the Mora Public Library has an entire _section_ of books about it.” She smiled. “I even wrote a few of them myself.”

She gestured to the mage, and they and his friend left the house together…


End file.
